


Bad Month, Worse Night

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fights, M/M, Pool Table Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean hustles pool and Sam takes a beating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Month, Worse Night

It had been a bad month.

The laptop had finally died, they'd had no luck making any cash and were having to pick between sleeping in the car and bed bug motels, and they'd had a few really brutal hunts in a row. A kid they both thought they should have been able to save had died on the last one. And a dozen smaller things-- some drunk asshole had scratched the whole length of the car at a bar last week and Dean was climbing the walls over it, Sam's favorite hoodie had gotten totally destroyed when they were putting down the werewolf, and their last credit card had been cut up in Laramie.

They were both feeling abraded and ill used, and it was manifesting in long sullen silences and brutal arguments over stupid things. They had nearly come to blows in the laundry mat that afternoon over how many minutes the dryer needed, and by unspoken agreement had sat at the counter so they wouldn't have to look at each other over dinner. They had spoken so little to each other that the waitress had brought them separate checks. 

Sam had been in a bad place even before their luck had changed for the worse—Sam was basically perpetually in a bad place-- but this had been the kind of month existential crises spring from. 

If they had been smart, they would have driven straight to Bobby's and let him take care of them a little bit. Give Dean a chance to fix the car, let them both get a few good nights sleep. Recharge. But they wouldn’t, hadn't even really discussed it as an option, because after the kid neither of them felt that they quite deserved it. 

After they had paid their separate checks, Dean had slid into the car, scrubbed his hand over his face and told Sam he just felt like they needed a win, which was about the only thing Sam had agreed with him on in a week. But a win took a case and a case meant gasoline and a motel, so before they could begin to get back on track they had to get some cash.

Which is how they found themselves outside Bert’s Bar. They weren’t really in the best headspace to hustle, all wound up and out of sync, but they didn’t have any other options. After a pointless argument over who would play—Sam was a more skilled player, but Dean was by far the better actor and had the added benefit of having a whole repertoire of smiles people just wanted to wipe off his face—they divided up the last bits of their cash, only about $30 each, and Sam sauntered into the bar.

Bert’s was especially divey. The floor was sticky, anyone who wasn’t drinking out of a beer bottle was drinking out of a clear solo cup, and the only food seemed to be two dusty snack-sized bags of off-brand potato chips hanging next to the mirror. Sam hated it immediately. It was small and dark and depressing and matched his mood exactly. But it had two pool tables in the back and a group of locals clustered around one of them, which was the only real requirement. 

Sam ordered a whiskey with a beerback because fuck had it been a long day, and then took the slightly too warm bottle over to where he could watch the pool players. There were three guys, two of whom were playing and a smaller one who was leaning against a cigarette machine, smoking. Sam couldn’t quite figure out the group dynamics, but he thought maybe they worked together. 

Sam walked over to the cigarette machine and put some rumpled bills in, trying to be seen, trying to overhear what the group was talking about, get a read on them. Dean wouldn’t like Sam buying cigarettes, which was undeniably part of the appeal tonight, but he wouldn’t be able to say anything until they got back to the car. 

Football—they were discussing tomorrow’s game. Not as lucky as if they’d be discussing cars, but Dean would be able to strike up a conversation. Sam bummed a light from the small one and took the cigarettes back to his stool, savoring the bitter taste and the burning in his throat. Sam figured he probably didn’t need to take on any more self-destructive behaviors, but smoking would be high on the list if he changed his mind. Sam hated himself enough to smoke. 

Sam didn’t hear the door open, didn’t see his brother walk in, but he felt it. Sam and Dean had always had a sixth sense for each other. He heard Dean order a beer, followed by a laugh that only Sam would have been able to tell was forced, fake. 

Dean sat three stools down from Sam, and nodded at him with no recognition in his eyes. Sam felt an unwelcome thrill run up his spine, but tried to return Dean’s glance with equal detachment. Sam slid another cigarette out of the pack and saw Dean’s jaw tighten, briefly. Sam liked that, too. 

“Got a light?” Sam asked, knowing perfectly well the zippo was in his brother’s front pocket. 

“Sorry, haven’t.” Dean lied. “Don’t smoke.” It was a testament to his abilities that he didn’t let even a hint of irritation seep into his voice.

“Thanks anyway.” Sam gestured to the bartender for another shot and beer, and a pack of matches. He downed the whiskey, light the cigarette, and turned around on his stool, eyeing the pool table. Back on script. “So, you play?”

Dean took a swig of his beer. “I do.” 

“You wanna?” Sam gestured toward the table with his beer.

“I don’t know, I’m just trying to have a beer and wind down.” 

“Come on! I can make it interesting!” Sam let his voice get louder, and took his last twenty out and laid it on the bar. 

“Come on, buddy, you don’t want me to take your money from you.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try.” Sam grabbed his cash and his beer and headed towards the pool table, knowing without looking that Dean was making a show of following hesitantly. Sam racked the balls and they were off. Dean missing some easy shots, making harder ones. They had played this exact game a thousand times-- it was calculated to show that Dean was good, but not that good, and both of them could have shot either role in their sleep. 

Sam loved playing pool with his brother, and even if this wasn’t real pool, was all an act, the alcohol and the familiar rhythm started to relax him, started to untie some of the knots in his shoulders, to remind him it wasn’t always bad. They ordered another round, and, as always, Sam nearly won the first game. 

Dean was barely touching his beer—Sam had twice switched his nearly empty one for Dean’s full—but for game two was putting on a show of being a little sloshed, and a lot over confident, swaggering around the table with that fucking irritating lopsided grin on his face, and keeping up a steady stream of banter. It was working, like it always did, and the group at the other table kept glancing over, interested. Sam lost the second game on what looked like a lucky shot, and stumble away from the table with a drunken “fuck you, you aren’t as good as you think you are.” 

By the time Sam had made it back to the bar, Dean was already starting a game with one of the other guys, standing back to let him break. Sam was done, off stage for the rest of the night while his brother performed, which was good, because Sam was starting to feel the effects of drinking for two. 

Sam was suddenly exhausted, all those nights of terrible sleep catching up to him all at once. He wanted to put his down on the bar and sleep, but that would have gotten him kicked out and he needed to watch Dean’s back, just in case this turned south on them the way everything had lately, so he lit another cigarette instead. 

Dean was leaning over the table, back to Sam, his shirt hitched up in the back. Sam felt his heart stutter. Dean looked gorgeous stretched out over a pool table, all muscle and charm and soft flannel hugging his shoulders. Sam shredded a coaster, took a long drink from his beer, tried to rein himself back in.

About the only thing good about this terrible month was that Sam had been so wiped he hadn’t had the energy to really notice Dean. But tonight, off the clock and a little drunk, it was all coming back to him. 

One of Sam’s very first fantasies about Dean had involved a pool table. The summer Sam had first started obsessing about Dean, the summer he’d realized his feelings weren’t brotherly, had also been the summer Dean taught Sam to play pool. They’d been living in a motel with a “game room,” which consisted of only a broke air hockey table and scratched pool table, and Dean had spent the entire summer with his arm’s around Sam, showing him how to get each shot right. 

Sam had actually picked up how to play a lot faster than Dean thought he had. 

Sam’s fantasy hadn’t changed much since then. They would be practicing and Sam would screw up a shot, and Dean would reset the table and then put his arms around Sam, just like that summer, showing him exactly how to approach the shot. Sam would smell the leather of Dean’s jacket, his aftershave, and would be absolutely lost in it, drunk on it, and would moan, accidently. Dean would hear him, would tense, and then Sam would feel Dean pressed against his back, growing hard. Sam would drop his stick on the felt and turn, press himself against Dean, would suck a mark on his neck. 

Dean would surprise them both, would be drive wild by it. He’d push Sam backwards onto the table, billiards scattering, and rip off both their shirts. He’d work his way from Sam’s ear lobe to his navel, Sam hard and begging, and he’d run his tongue around the band of Sam’s boxers. Sam’s would be arching into his brother, scrabbling at Dean’s back. Dean would fist his hands in Sam’s hair, pulling, exposing his neck, which he would bite and kiss until Sam couldn’t form words. Sam would be working at both their zippers, kicking off his jeans, pushing at Dean’s, positively aching for skin to skin contact. Sam, would reach for Dean, but Dean would push his hands away, and take Sam into his mouth. The rest would be shuddering and rolling waves and fireworks.

Sam blinked, noticed a beast of a man starring at him from the other end of the bar. _Fuck._ This wasn’t something Sam should be mooning over at all, but especially not so unguarded, drunk and tired, in Bert’s shitty redneck dive Bar. Sam felt sick. He pulled his eyes away from Dean, took another swig of his beer, and studied his hands. 

Not quick enough. The Beast pushed away from the bar, lumbered over to Sam. 

“Why the fuck you watching them, huh?” The Beast growled.

“What?” Sam blinked, feigning drunk confusion. 

“You some kind of homo?” _You have no idea,_ Sam thought, bitterly. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about.” Sam cut his eyes to Dean, checking to see if he’d noticed, but he had his back to Sam, was absorbed in the game. _Good._

“Get the fuck out of here. We don’t take kindly to your kind.” The Beast crossed his arms, starring Sam down. On top of everything, this was just exactly more than Sam could take. Sam stood up, clenched his fists.

“I’m warning you. Back off, buddy. I don’t want to hurt you. ” Sam kept his voice quiet, low. Even kinda drunk, Sam knew he could handle this guy alone, and if Dean caught wind of what was going on, he’d be over in a second and then they’d have to deal with the three guys they’d hustled in addition to this asshole. 

The Beast took a swing at him, which Sam dodged easily. But Sam hadn’t counted on Beast having friends, hadn’t taken into account what a small town it was, and before he’d gotten more than one blow in someone had pinned his hands behind his back, rendering him defenseless as Beast punched him. 

_Yes,_ Sam thought, _hit me._ It sort of felt right, getting punched for fantasizing about his brother. Sam wondered darkly if maybe getting hit in the face was the stopgap he needed, the something he’d been looking for between killing himself and leaving to help him survive. Sam thought maybe he'd wanted this to happen.

In a way, Sam had been expecting a beating exactly like this for almost ten years. Of course, Sam had been expecting it from his father. 

Sam was fucked up in just about every way he could be.

The Beast only got a couple in before Dean intervened, knocking Beast so hard across the chin that Sam heard his teeth rattle, giving Sam the break he needed to get loose. Sam’s left eye was starting to swell, and his mouth tasted like blood. 

Dean broke a beer bottle against the bar, and brandished it like a knife. “Anyone else want to fucking touch him?” 

Beast and his friend backed away, everyone else in the bar looked down. Dean slung his arm across Sam’s shoulders, and pulled him out of the bar towards the car. Sam could feel his brother’s pulse pounding.

Dean pushed him into the Impala and gunning it out of the parking lot. 

“Fuck, Sammy! How the hell did that happen? How the hell did they make you? What the fuck was that about?” Dean’s words were angry, but his tone was all ragged and worried. 

And how was Sam supposed to respond to that? _I was thinking about you sucking me off on that pool table, Dean, and I must have had a really lovesick look on my face, because that guy decided he had to punch it off._

Sam examined the damage he could see in the rearview, a purple bruises already starting to rise on his cheekbone, no doubt more forming on his ribs. But he didn’t think anything was broken. He deserved worse. “I’m okay. Sorry. I’m okay. It’s fine.” 

“Be damned if I believe you.” Dean made a few turns at random, then pulled over onto a side road and parked under a streetlight before sliding over to examine Sam himself. He pulled napkins out of the glove compartment to dab at the cut on Sam’s eyebrow, and ran his fingers over Sam’s face and ribs, slow and careful, checking for broken bones. Sam hated himself more for loving it. 

Satisfied Sam hadn’t been lying, Dean slid back onto his side of the car, and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed. “What the fuck is going on lately?” 

Sam didn’t know what to say. They’d had a string of bad luck but this, this particular curse had been with them for ages, even if Dean wasn’t aware of it. Frankly, Sam couldn’t believe that he’d made it this far without getting his face smashed in over it. All of which was unimaginably screwed up and none of which he could actually tell Dean. Dean looked rung out and wrecked and it caught in Sam’s chest like barbed wire. 

“We will be okay,” Sam lied. They’d solve their next case, Sam was sure of that, but Sam didn’t think he’d ever be okay. Wasn’t sure he could remember a time he had ever been. “Just a bad month. Things will get better, they always do,” which hadn’t been Sam’s experience, at all.


End file.
